by Sarah Zettel
How is it this place is not guarded?
But it was. By dry silence and dry wind and the boundless reaches of the night. There was nothing to grasp here, nothing to strive against. Only the isolation, and the dry thorn tree. Nothing to reach towards or for. No sign of trap or tomb.
Tick. Tick. Her blood fell onto stone.
The thorn tree rattled its branches. Laurel lifted her head.
The wind fell away, leaving behind silence as thick and binding as any shroud. It was cold, cold as the grave and dry as a bone. The stars shone overhead, hard, brilliant and distant.
Tick. Tick. Her blood fell onto stone. Nothing moved but her blood dropping down. The kelpie stood like a statue. Time had ceased. There was nothing and here would be nothing here but darkness, and the drops of blood. Tick. Tick.
Blood. Blood to blood the strongest call. This whole, long nightmare had been about blood. Goloris’s blood, shed to free Ygraine, Morgause’s blood that ran through the veins of her sons. Morgaine’s blood burning with the need for vengeance against the world.
She never died, not really. But she was kept forever apart. Morgause had not killed Morgaine, and Morgaine had not killed Morgause. But she had trapped her where she could not hear, could not answer.
What call would be strong enough to reach her? The call of blood.
“Morgause,” said Laurel. “Morgause, Ygraine’s daughter, I am come from your son Agravain. I am come to aid all your sons; Gawain, Agravain, Geraint and Gareth. Morgause, in their names, will you speak to me?”
Laurel felt light as a feather, and dry as dust. There was nothing for her to hold here, no way for her to find purchase on the dry, dead stone. No cloud, no mist to bring her the water of life and hold her in place. There was only dust and stone, and nothing more. Nothing at all.
“Morgause, I come in your son’s name. Will you speak to me?”
The thorn tree shifted.
Laurel blinked. There was no wind. A trick of the light?
No. The branches moved, but not like a tree’s that is blown by the wind. They drooped and bent. They bowed in to wrap around the trunk which hunched and thickened. The ribbons tied to the twigs blurred and stretched, darkened and lengthened, until they were an ancient woman’s white hair and black robe, its hems spreading out around her feet, and yet somehow remaining the roots of the tree she had been, held tight by the dry stone.
“Who calls me?” she rasped, her voice rattling like dead leaves. “Who can call me?”
Laurel stood frozen. She had spoken to the dead, but the sight of this captive robbed her of the power of speech. She could still see the tree this woman was. Part of her heart wanted to believe that this was a dream. The ribboned tree had to be the truth, not this old, worn woman, her blue eyes gone cloudy with despair and the dry chains of enchantment that held her.
“I am Laurel Carnbrea, daughter of Morwenna, who is the daughter of the sea.”
“Ahhhh!” sighed Morgause. Her arms waved vaguely. Her clouded eyes searched the heavens, the hilltop that sloped away into shadow.
She’s blind, realized Laurel numbly. Had Morgaine blinded her deliberately, or was that just one more curse leveled by her imprisonment?
“You call out the names of my sons.” Like the movement of her body, her voice was vague, almost careless. Each word seemed to stretch up like a child, reaching for some object it wanted, but could not understand. “What are you to my sons?” The question was light, not amused, but vacant, empty, as if she could not believe it was real.
I want her to be a dream. What does she want me to be?
“I am wife to Agravain.” Despite all, I remain so.
She did not answer for a long time. Her blind eyes moved, this way and that. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as if tasting the air. Her crooked fingers stretched out to nothing. Did she know where she was? What had happened to her? Was her prison some terrible dream Morgaine had laid upon her from which she could not wake?
Or had she gone blind trying to see through the tangled web of the invisible countries to where her flesh was trapped into the mortal world?
“Yes,” Morgause said at last, letting the word fall slowly as a sigh. “It would be Agravain who would cleave to such a one.” She cocked her head and smiled just a little. The sadness of that smile went straight to Laurel’s battered heart. “How does my son?”
Laurel swallowed, licking her lips, and trying to find the strength to speak words that would be true. “He is sore pressed, my lady,” she said. “He goes to battle against Morgaine and her son Mordred.”
“Then …” Morgause reached out with one hand, stretching it to its limits, caressing the empty air in front of her eyes. “Lot is dead.”
“Yes.”
Morgause held still for a moment, eyes, hands, mouth all frozen. Then, she sagged down, her head slumping to her chest, her body curling and buckling. In unfettered flesh, she would have fallen to her knees, but her transformation, her prison, held her upright.
“Ah! Ah!” Morgause wailed. “My husband. My husband!” She lifted her head up to the star-filled sky, straining her blind eyes to see what was gone. No tears shone on her cheeks. This place was too dry even for tears.
“Wait for me, Lot!” Morgause pleaded. “Wait for me!”
Laurel hardened her heart. “There is a question I must ask you, Morgause.”
It took some time for her words to reach through the fog of grief and enchantment. But Morgause did lower her face, turning an ear more closely to Laurel. “What question?” It was as if she could not help herself.
What use has Morgaine made of you here? Have you been made to be her oracle for all these years? Oh, Mother Mary preserve us, did she make you tell of the downfall of your husband and sons?
“What is Morgaine’s weakness? How can she be defeated?”
“Ahhhh! Ahhhh! It’s come to that. It would come to that.” Morgause’s pale eyes darted back and forth, seeing phantoms of nightmare and memory. “I tried. I tried. But I was too slow and far, far too late.”
“Please, my lady,” Laurel took a step forward, holding out a hand that could not be seen. “I must know, so I can tell your son Agravain how to strike.”
“It cannot help him. But it can. But cannot.” Morgause shuddered and twisted, her arms swaying, buffeted by tormenting winds that came from nowhere but her imprisoned heart. “My heart is gone. I have nothing left. Lot is dead. Lot is dead!” Her voice broke piteously upon the words. “I had so much,” she whispered. “But it is all gone now. My fault,” she whispered and the words were the sound of heartbreak. “My fault.”
“No,” said Laurel. “Not gone. Stolen. Your sons live still, Morgause. Let me help them. Let me help Agravain.” She stretched out her hands, pleading, for every good moment they had shared, for every glimpse of the man he was and the king he could be.
Morgause wavered, swaying back and forth, a woman who wanted to faint and fall in her weakness but could not, a tree that would bend and break, for its heart had long ago rotted away, but could not. Trapped. Trapped and made to serve until she was uncertain whether she could, or should, defy her captor anymore. The thought of failure sickened her heart as badly as the sight of so much pain. At the realization that she had been willing to do this much to Lot Luwddoc.
No, no, I would have let him go at once.
But for how long? Surely I would have needed him again … Oh, power was a dread thing.
Laurel took the queen’s hand, kneeling down in supplication, in remorse. She felt bark and stem, and she felt a woman’s bones. “Do not leave Agravain to her.”
It was as if a storm shook her. Morgause threw her head back, twisting and turning, caught in an invisible gale. She would have screamed, but she could only whimper. Laurel heard her limbs crack, saw the pain contorting her face as her joints bent and turned, cramped and crabbed. Her gnashing teeth bit her withered lips. Laurel held her hand, held tight, not daring to let go, to break the cord of human s
ympathy, the only such that had come to Morgause in ten years.
Remember your sons. Remember your husband. You say their suffering is your fault, then act now to end it.
But to save the sons, to avenge the husband, she must again betray the sister whose suffering was caused by the death of their father, caused by their mother. Suffering that Morgause must feel as keenly as if it were her own, for that sister was her other self.
Which treason would she choose?
Morgause slumped down in her cage of enchantment, borne up only by confinement. She lifted her head, and for the first time, her blinded eyes turned towards Laurel.
“It was early days,” Morgause said, and she laid her other dry, light hand over Laurel’s and Laurel at once remembered the touch of her mother, wasted by illness and ready to die. “The twelve battles were won. The Britons were safe at last. But Merlin gave Arthur one last prophecy. Merlin told him his unlawful child would bring all the Britons to their knees. But it was not only Merlin who learned this truth. My sister, my twin, her soul broken and bleeding after all the long years, she also knew, and she acted.”
Vision gripped Laurel, and she saw a war-ravaged town, its surviving people, all of them Britons, swarming about to greet the bloody and mud covered victors. They shouted their praises, and fell at their feet, and … and … and …
“Great king. Great king, will you have me?”
Black-haired and black-eyed, older than she had been, he did not recognize her. Her dress was torn, but nothing of her manner was broken. She was full of life, and the lust that is raised by battle made it easy. He grabbed her hard by the waist and she came with a laugh to press against his chest and answer his kiss boldly, bawdily. The soldiers around cheered, as he pressed her against the wall, and then swept her laughing through the doorway.
In a fever pitch, he took her there on the dirt floor, tossing aside his armor and his restraint. She laughed hard and urged him on, crying out his name. When it was done, he backed away on his knees, suddenly ridiculous in his nakedness and shaking with spent lust.
“Are you … did I hurt …”
She smiled at him and rose gracefully. “You did magnificently.” She crossed to him, drawing his head back and kissing him. “Great king.”
And she left him there in the darkness of the hovel, to gather his armor and wonder why he was so afraid.
“Arthur didn’t know where the child was or who he might be, but he would not take the risk. Flush with his victories he lost caution, but not all mercy. He thought … he thought he could do an evil which was no evil.”
Merlin she saw now, his beard shorter, his face less lined, but the beginnings of the sadness that would carve those lines deep in his eyes.
“You have fathered a son,” said Merlin flatly. “That son will be your death and the undoing of your life’s work.”
He was still thin, his beard scanty. A youth become king in battle, but now with a king’s work to do, and not yet grown to that work. “What do I do?” he whispered.
Merlin turned his face away. “I don’t know, my king.”
“You must know.”
“He is near Durnovaria, but more than that I cannot see. He is being hidden from me.”
Arthur faced the horizon, looking out over the vast plain, where the ravages of war were being buried by the plough. That was his victory, and there was a kind of greed in him as he watched it. Dreadful decision took him.
“Take the boys there, send them hostage to Joyeux Gard in Normandy. When it becomes clear which is … which is the one you spoke of, we will know better what to do.”
Merlin held out his hand, a gesture halfway between pleading and warning. “You cannot cheat destiny this way.”
The habit of command had came swift to Arthur. He would not abandon his victory, his great peace so dearly bought. “I cannot leave it. Do as I have said!”
Merlin bowed his head, before his king could see the tears in his eyes. “It shall be done.”
“He did not want any to know which was his son, to protect him from being the kernel around which an uprising might grow, or to protect himself should the child come to learn his nature, I do not know, but he had a hundred boys, babes, that were about the right age, brought together. There were plenty of willing hands, but it was his order, and they were put to sea in a ship, to be sent to Brittany and Languedoc, for fosterage he insisted. To be murdered, others said.
“In the end, it mattered not, because a storm came up and the boat went down, and all those children sent to sea at Arthur’s word died.”
Morgause threw her head back once more, and it seemed to Laurel she was pleading for tears, for release. “It was Morgaine who raised the storm,” she whispered. “She called on the morverch and she made bargain with them. They could take every life on that ship if they spared but one. Her son, Mordred.” The blind eyes searched, restless, frightened, and found her again. “It was her doing that took the innocents that might have lived.”
And that was it. That was the deed, the way and the door to Morgaine, and she held it in her hands now. She had thought at such a moment she would feel triumph, but she knew only a sick horror at the deaths, so much death, that could be assuaged and bought off only by yet more death.
For the death of the innocent there was always a price. It was a fell bargain, and it would exact its cost.
This was why she wanted to keep me from the sea. So that I would not learn this, because this is the deed for which she must answer, and for which there is no answer.
“God have mercy,” she whispered. “Oh, grandmother, God have mercy on us all.”
“No,” Morgause shook herself. “There is no mercy for such as we. Ah, Lot! Lot! Forgive me! Forgive me my sons!” She hung again, limp, helpless, a butterfly in the web, forgotten by even the spider.
“Why didn’t she kill you?” whispered Laurel.
Morgause lifted her head, looking right at Laurel with her blind eyes. “How could she? She gave me half her power, when we were still girls.”
“You don’t understand, Morgause. What we are. What we can be.” Her twin gripped her hands. “Come back to me, sister. Let me show you.”
It was like light. It poured into her, stronger than wine, stronger than love. It filled her with terror and with beauty. It was the wild rush of freedom Laurel had felt when she stood up to her knees in the sea and let it suffuse her. It was a thousand wondrous things, but most of all it was the gift from one twin to another, one half of a soul to the other. From Morgaine to Morgause.
“Now we are together again,” said Morgaine. “No one will ever separate us again. Now you understand everything.”
But Morgaine was wrong. Morgause did not understand everything. She understood power, but not hatred.
Morgause also understood the one thing Morgaine did not. Morgause understood that love could heal as well as wound.
She never died. Not really. Of course not. Morgaine needed her alive. Here was half her power, half her spirit. The blessing and the curse of those born twinned. That bond made closer by Morgaine herself, thinking she could win her sister over by bestowing some of the power she gained upon Morgause.
But when the time came, she found that the link she had forged could not be broken. Morgause had learned that lesson earlier. That was why Morgaine had never died. Guinevere and Merlin between them were ready to undo Morgaine, but not to kill Morgause in the doing. So, she was imprisoned only.
For that they had paid, and Morgause herself had come to this place to make the end she could not make before. But she had failed then, and this was the price. The price for failing to see the sacrifice required of her before. The price for the simple, all-too-human wish to live instead of die.
“How can I free you?” asked Laurel. “Let me take you back to your son.”
But Morgause only shook her heavy head. “I cannot be free until death comes, and death will not come to me here.”
Laurel swallowed and nodded. She
had feared as much. She stood, drawing away from the imprisoned queen. Her legs weak and shaking, she made her way back to the to the black horse that waited so unnaturally still and patient. “Kelpie,” she murmured. “May it be that you and I can bring release here?”
The kelpie whickered and rolled one blank, black eye towards the sky. The wind blew hard, and Laurel nodded. With her hand on the kelpie’s cool neck, she faced into the wind. It brushed past her ears, blowing her hair out, tugging at locks and hems. It knew where the clouds waited. It could fetch them here, fetch them all with their heavy load of water. Water enough to wash away all the sins of the world. The clouds closed over Laurel’s head, blotting out the stars and moon. Pregnant with their water, they collided grumbling together, crowding, merging, lowering.
Rain showered down upon Laurel’s head. Hard, fat hard drops struck her head, shoulders, arms. Drops turned quickly into threads of water, then whole streams falling from the sky. The rain ran into the dry stone beneath her feet. It trickled into the cracks, drizzling down to seek the water hidden far beneath this rocky crust that had been still and stagnant for years. The rain filled up the cracks opened by the roots of the tree, forcing the stone apart like a wedge. Rivers of rainwater tumbled down the hill. The wind blew hard. The tree swayed and creaked, the queen whimpered and wailed. Laurel, drenched by her own storm, did not permit herself to move.
The cracks widened and the water rose to the tree’s dried roots that could drink no more. They could only weaken and waver. The split trunk that held the nails and the coins trapped could not absorb so much so suddenly. It could only give way.
Slowly, slowly the thorn tree bent and screamed and snapped in a long, splintering tear. It toppled into the new river of water that flowed down the stony hillside to be swept up in the freshening current.
For a moment, Laurel saw not the broken tree, but Morgause, arrayed in the raiment of a queen, eyes closed in the last sleep.
Morgause, queen of Gododdin lay at peace and was carried away by her river.
Laurel’s knees gave way and she fell to the ground, gasping and shivering under the weight of the water that poured down.